After one has abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption.

Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.

God is gracious to some very peculiar people.

All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.

If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.

For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.